The "Couples Running Challenge" badge haunted me for three days.

I kept replaying that moment—the casual way the notification had appeared on Beau's screen, the months of shared workouts with someone whose initials weren't mine. C.M. The letters burned in my mind like a brand.

Beau's behavior shifted after our gym visit, though he probably thought he was being subtle. His phone became his shadow, always within arm's reach, always face-down on surfaces. During dinner, during our evening walks, even when we watched Netflix curled up on the couch—that damn phone was right there, a silent third presence in our relationship.

Tuesday evening, we sat at the kitchen island sharing takeout Thai food. Beau's phone buzzed against the granite countertop. His fork paused halfway to his mouth as he glanced at the screen. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips—soft, almost tender. It was the kind of smile I remembered from our early days together, when just seeing my name on his phone could light up his entire face.

When was the last time he'd smiled like that because of me?

"Work?" I asked, keeping my voice light as I twirled pad thai around my fork.

Beau's smile vanished. He flipped the phone face-down without reading the message. "Probably. You know how Peterson gets when he's stressed about deadlines."

Peterson was Beau's perpetually anxious project manager who sent emails at all hours. But Peterson's messages usually made Beau groan or roll his eyes, not smile like he was keeping a delicious secret.

Another buzz. This time Beau's hand shot out so quickly to silence it that he nearly knocked over his water glass.

"Popular tonight," I observed.

"Just work stuff." He stood abruptly, shoving the phone into his back pocket. "I should probably respond to these. Mind if I...?"

He gestured vaguely toward the bedroom, already backing away from the table.

"Of course not."

I watched him disappear down the hallway, leaving me alone with cold pad thai and a growing knot of dread in my stomach. Through the thin walls of our apartment, I could hear the low murmur of his voice. He was making a call.

Who calls their project manager at eight-thirty on a Tuesday night?

By Thursday, I'd made my decision. I needed to see for myself what—or who—was drawing Beau to that gym with such regularity. I told him I had an early meeting and left the apartment at seven in the morning, but instead of heading to my office, I drove straight to Elite Fitness.

The parking lot was surprisingly busy for such an early hour. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I could see the morning crowd: serious-looking people in expensive workout gear, moving with the purposeful intensity of those who treated fitness like a religion.

I parked where I had a clear view of the entrance and waited.

Beau arrived at seven-forty-five, right on schedule. I slumped lower in my seat as he walked past, close enough that I could see the spring in his step. He looked... happy. Eager, even. This wasn't the reluctant gym-goer who'd complained about finding time in his schedule.

I watched him push through the glass doors and immediately scan the interior. His face lit up when he spotted someone near the free weights section. Even from my distance, I could see his posture change—shoulders straightening, that same tender smile spreading across his features.

A woman approached him. Tall, athletic, with glossy black hair pulled back in a high ponytail. Her name tag caught the fluorescent lights as she moved: Clara.

C.M.

My breath caught as she threw her arms around Beau's neck in an embrace that lasted several beats too long. Her laugh carried through the glass as she pulled back, her hands lingering on his shoulders. She said something that made him duck his head, grinning like a teenager with his first crush.

Then she did something that made my blood turn to ice water in my veins.

She reached up and brushed that familiar lock of dark hair away from his eyes—the same gesture I'd made a thousand times, the same intimate touch I thought belonged to us.

Beau caught her wrist gently, bringing her palm to his cheek for just a moment before releasing it. The tenderness in that simple action was like a physical blow.

I sat in my car for another twenty minutes, watching them move through their workout routine with the easy synchronization of people who'd done this dance many times before. Clara spotted him during bench presses, her hands positioned protectively above the bar. During his rest periods, she'd lean against the equipment, close enough that their knees touched as they talked.

Everything about their interaction screamed intimacy. Familiarity. History.

When I finally drove away, my hands were shaking so badly I had to pull over twice.

That evening, I decided to test my growing suspicions.

"I've been thinking," I said as Beau emerged from the shower, towel wrapped around his waist. "Maybe we should book some couples' sessions at the gym. You know, with a personal trainer who can help us work out together more effectively."

Beau froze in the middle of toweling his hair. Water droplets clung to his shoulders as he stared at me through the bathroom mirror.

"Couples' training?" His voice sounded strained.

"Why not? It could be fun. Motivating." I kept my tone casual, but I was watching his reflection carefully. "I saw they offer it on their website. We could even request a specific trainer if you have a preference."

The towel slipped from Beau's suddenly nerveless fingers.

"That's... that's really cheesy, Liv. Don't you think?" He bent to retrieve the towel, avoiding my eyes. "I mean, we're adults. We don't need someone holding our hands through a workout."

"I thought it might be romantic."

"Romantic?" He laughed, but it sounded forced. "Sweating together in front of a stranger? I don't think so." He moved past me toward the dresser, his movements jerky and agitated. "Besides, I think we should focus on our individual goals first. Build up our own stamina and strength before we try to coordinate routines."

I nodded slowly, filing away every word, every nervous gesture.

"You're probably right," I said.

But as I watched him pull on his clothes with shaking hands, I knew I was anything but right about the man I was supposed to marry in six months.

I needed answers, and I was tired of playing detective from the shadows.

Friday afternoon, I walked into Elite Fitness with a purpose that felt foreign in my chest—cold, calculating, nothing like the trusting woman who'd bought those membership cards weeks ago. The familiar scent of disinfectant and artificial citrus hit me as I scanned the gym floor, looking for her.

Clara Moreno stood near the squat racks, clipboard in hand, her glossy black ponytail swaying as she demonstrated proper form to a middle-aged man who was clearly more interested in her body than her instruction. She wore form-fitting leggings and a sports bra that showcased her toned abs, every inch of her screaming professional athlete.

I approached slowly, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Excuse me? Clara?"

She turned, and I watched her dark eyes travel from my face down to my sneakers and back up again. The assessment was thorough, dismissive, and somehow deeply personal. A smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth.

"Yeah?" Her voice carried a slight accent I hadn't noticed from my car window observations.

"I was wondering about personal training sessions. I'm looking to get in better shape."

Clara's laugh was sharp, cutting. "Oh honey." She set down her clipboard and crossed her arms, which only emphasized her perfect physique. "You're looking at a lot of work. Like, a *lot* of work."

Heat flooded my cheeks, but I forced myself to stand straighter. "I'm willing to put in the effort."

"Are you though?" She tilted her head, studying me like I was a particularly disappointing science experiment. "Because I don't waste my time with clients who aren't really committed. And looking at you..." Her gaze lingered on my soft midsection, my untoned arms. "I'm seeing someone who probably thinks a thirty-minute walk counts as cardio."

The cruelty in her voice was breathtaking. This wasn't professional assessment—this was personal.

"I think you're underestimating me," I managed, though my voice sounded smaller than I'd intended.

"Am I?" Clara stepped closer, and I caught a whiff of her expensive perfume mixed with clean sweat. "Because honestly, transformation takes dedication. It takes discipline. It takes showing up every single day even when you don't feel like it." Her eyes glittered with something that looked almost like amusement. "Some people just don't have what it takes."

I stared at her perfect face, at the way she looked at me like I was something she'd scrape off her shoe, and suddenly I understood. This wasn't about fitness at all. This was about Beau.

She knew exactly who I was.

"I'll think about it," I said quietly, backing away on unsteady legs.

"You do that," Clara called after me, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "Maybe start with some YouTube videos first. Work your way up."

I fled the gym with her laughter echoing behind me.

---

That evening, I told myself I was going to confront Beau directly. I'd practiced the conversation in my head during the drive home, imagined myself calm and collected as I presented the evidence of his deception.

Instead, when he announced he had a work meeting and would be home late, I found myself grabbing my keys.

"Another Peterson crisis?" I asked, hating how normal my voice sounded.

"You know how it is." Beau kissed my forehead, the same casual gesture he'd made thousands of times before. Now it felt like a lie against my skin. "Don't wait up."

I waited exactly fifteen minutes after he left before following.

Beau's car led me through downtown traffic to a neighborhood I'd never visited—tree-lined streets with converted brownstones and trendy coffee shops. He parked outside a building with large windows and flower boxes, the kind of place young professionals aspired to live.

I watched from across the street as he used a key to let himself in. A key.

Twenty minutes passed. Then I saw them in a third-floor window—two silhouettes backlit by warm lamplight. Beau's unmistakable profile, and Clara's smaller frame pressed against him.

But it was what I saw next that shattered the last piece of my heart.

Clara stepped back from their embrace, and even from my distance, I could see the unmistakable curve of her belly. Her hand rested protectively over the rounded swell as Beau leaned down to kiss her, his palm covering hers in a gesture so tender, so reverent, that I had to grip my steering wheel to keep from screaming.

She was pregnant. Clara was pregnant with Beau's child.

I sat in my car, shaking, as the full scope of his betrayal crashed over me. This wasn't just an affair—this was a complete alternate life. A life where he was going to be a father with someone else while planning a wedding with me.

My phone felt impossibly heavy as I scrolled to Royce's number. It rang once, twice—

"Liv? What's wrong?"

My brother's voice, concerned and immediate, broke something inside me. The sob that escaped was raw, animal, nothing like any sound I'd ever made before.

"Royce," I gasped between tears. "I need you. Please, I need you to come over right now."

"I'm on my way."